


For Not Breaking

by Persephone



Series: Lord's F*cken Name [3]
Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Bar Room Brawl, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-12
Updated: 2011-12-12
Packaged: 2017-10-27 05:42:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persephone/pseuds/Persephone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Connor watches Murphy fight, Connor feels some things that he would rather keep to himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Not Breaking

Connor gripped the Russian thug by the hair and pulled his head down. He slammed his fist into his gut again and again, counting the profanities it would take to bring this fucken brute down.

Somewhere to his left he could feel Murphy moving in synch with him, not breaking rhythm for even a moment, his shoulder, his elbow, his fist, moving on the same hinge.

Bar fights on shots of whiskey could not be fucken beat. This thug’s mistake was that he was gettin’ _paid_ to be here to fight, whereas he and Murphy were gettin’ _joy_ to do this with friends. Now how could that compare?

Their guys dropped in synch. Murphy whooped and Connor crowed with laughter.

He was able to stumble back but Murphy got rushed, slammed into the far wall, he and his assailant crashing into a sitting position on the bench, with the mobster’s head barreling into Murphy’s chest.

Connor suddenly felt his body cramp, the familiar hard rush of fear smashing through his body. His heart contracted and kept on contracting, squeezing until he thought his fear would cripple him. He began to chant to himself that it was all right, it was fucken _fine!_

But it wasn’t up to him. The mobster grabbed and banged Murphy into the back of the bench and Connor’s heart lost its rhythm and slammed hard against his ribcage.

His eyes never left Murphy as Murphy’s fist connected brutally. He heard himself swearing in desperation, screaming silently at the fucker touching his brother, trying to break him to pieces. He would _kill_ this prick! He would break his fucken arms!

Three guys on their side scrambled after Murphy, and Connor jumped in front of them, arms spread to prevent them getting any farther. They shoved against him, but he shoved back.

“Stay way from him!” he screamed, not caring that his voice broke. “He can take care of himself!”

He didn’t breathe anymore, seeing everything in slow motion as Murphy reached behind his head without looking and pulled out two bottles of liquor from the rack, felt his knees buckle as Murphy smashed them, one after the other, on the head of the man pummeling him.

He watched Murphy’s eyes, black and deep and calm, and aye, _wicked,_ and felt his breathing kick start. The madness just as suddenly slackened its grip from his throat.

The sounds in the bar slowly reasserted themselves— breaking bottles and shouting drunks.

The mobster slid unconscious off Murphy. Murphy rocketed off the bench, whooping and throwing his arms up into the air and bounding around the room. The guys roared with him, then pounded everyone within reach on the back in congratulations.

He welcomed the thumping, hoped it would break his trembling.

As they set about gathering the half conscious mobsters for a little fun, Doc producing ropes, Murphy slammed into him from behind, wrapped his arms around his chest and picked him up off the floor. Murph was laughing into his ear. Murphy planted a hard fast kiss on his neck, letting his tongue discreetly lick on the tattoo there.

The heat from Murphy’s tongue lingered long after he moved away, and if Murphy had felt his body shaking, he was sure Murphy would assume it was adrenaline from the fight.

He grabbed a bottle of whiskey sitting on the counter as the lead mobster, _Ivaaaaan,_ was strapped down on it. He poured liquor on his arse, lit a match and threw it after the alcohol. It flared up. The guys fell apart laughing as the tough guy turned into a hollerin’ baby.

He lifted the bottle and sucked down a mouthful of whiskey, trying to burn off the remaining feelings of distress bleeding out of him.

It would soon pass. It always did.

But it never got any easier.

He could only assume that one day it wouldn’t do this to him, wouldn’t make him have to fight with himself not to scramble over and be the one with his head buried in Murphy’s chest trying to block Murphy’s body from harm.

As their friends crushed around giving each other high-fives, while Doc put out the fire on the lard’s arse, he felt Murphy’s hand grip his and yank. He turned and looked. Murphy’s face was flushed, his mouth open and pouring hard breaths. Murphy was aroused.

He felt everything external to them burn away.

Murphy, seeing the look in his eyes, whooped and turned to the room, shouting that drinks were on the house. Then Murphy crashed out of the bar in the wake of roaring laughter, dragging him along.

They lived five blocks away, but almost didn’t make it that far.

Murphy tried to stumble into the first alley they came across. He yanked Murphy’s hand and had him flailing after him. The next thing Murphy tried to push up against was a dumpster, and he yelled for him to get his arse away from that thing.

They stumbled up the stairs, breathing harshly and still gripping hands, his left in Murphy’s right. The fight was over, they had kicked arse, they had made it home together. And yet he couldn’t stop shaking.

He tripped on the last step and Murphy came down on top of him.

Once he felt Murphy’s body against his, he gave up trying to stay in control. Reaching for the back of Murphy’s head, he sucked Murphy's tongue into his mouth. Murphy groaned softly. “You fucken dirty man,” Murphy breathed, then slanted his head and pushed his tongue deeper.

He wrapped his legs around Murphy’s and parted their legs, making Murphy exhale sharply as their groins mashed. Murphy abruptly rose to his knees with his crotch still firmly glued against to his, pulling him off the ground.

He locked his ankles around Murphy’s hips, and caught himself struggling to get his cock out of his jeans, before realizing that things were going to hell fast. Though the top level of their shit building was occupied entirely by their equally shit loft, they shouldn’t be groping on the fucken staircase.

He shoved at Murphy and crawled backwards on his hands, dragging his arse with Murphy still on top of him. Murphy crawled with him on his hands and knees, licking and sucking at him, then kicking the door closed behind them when they entered, until they got to the foot of Conmor's bed, the one closest to the door.

As Murphy yanked one of his work boots off and released one of his legs from his jeans, he couldn’t help himself. He supported his upper back against the edge of the bed and ran his hands all over Murphy’s back and chest, checking fast for injuries.

“Nice fucken fight,” Murphy breathed against his face, hunching over to push his jeans down to his shins. Then Murphy pushed his knees apart, wet his fingers, coldly wet his entrance, and pushed his fingers into him.

He gripped his brother’s arms and dropped his head backwards onto the mattress, aware for a moment that their T-shirts were still on. Didn’t matter at all.

Murphy twisted and slid his finger quickly, deeply into him, as if he could taste him, and his breathing cut down to fast gasps.

He listened to the sweet, wet sounds Murphy’s fingers were making in him, and his body began to tremble with a different kind of tension. A more welcome kind.

He cried out at the ceiling.

“Aw, fuck yeah,” Murphy said hoarsely. “One post-fight fuck, comin’ up.”

“Then what ’er you waitin’ for?” he wailed.

Murphy sniggered. “That.”

Murphy dropped saliva into his hand and moved forward, stroking himself. He felt the soft, hard head of Murphy’s cock push again his entrance, then felt Murphy bend forward across his shoulder to rest his upper body on the mattress behind him.

“Gimme a poundin’, Murph,” he whispered desperately. “Make me feel just that.”

“I will,” Murphy breathed, and began doing just that, with long, deep thrusts that threatened to slide the mattress off its box spring. He gripped Murphy’s torso, answering _Yes, yes!_ over and over, as Murphy panted his name helplessly into the mattress.

Murphy gripped the side of the mattress over his head, his upper body pressed into the bed as if he meant to climb it with Connor impaled on his cock.

And he pressed his face into Murphy’s side, under his arm, suddenly that he was gonna come with his cock trapped under Murphy, and it was gonna be so fucken good, but that he couldn’t feel Murphy’s skin.

Sliding his hands up the front of Murphy’s T-shirt, he closed his palms over Murphy’s pecs and got what he wanted, sinking the blunt nails of his thumbs into Murphy’s nipples.

Murphy blasphemed in ecstasy, locking his hand onto what strands of his hair he could collect, the gripping his cock and riding him onto the bed.

His hips jerked, him clutching Murphy tight as he began to spurt and Murphy pulling his cock against his spasms, jerking him fast until he was crying his brother’s name nonstop. Then Murphy was trembling and grinding a hot climax into him, the two of them saying incoherent things to one another, til there was nothing left of either of them.

Together they floated back to reality and slowly slid back to the floor. They fell sideways, separated, until Murphy climbed on top of him and passed out.

At last, he was at peace.

He ran his hands over Murphy’s body, checking for injuries he might have missed earlier. Down Murphy’s back, up his hips, around and under to feel his stomach. Murphy’s T-shirt and stomach were wet, but not with blood.

He took off their rosaries and laid them on the floor to one side, reminding himself to hang them up after, when Murphy either awoke from his stupor or fell into deeper sleep and he could get out from under him. Murphy could stay on the floor if he wanted.

lt would be different if he were on top, but the floor was hard wood and uncomfortable and Murph was fucken heavy. Therefore he was headed for the mattress where he would slumber peacefully, once more giving thanks to the Lord, that even in his hour of fear, for the fortitude he had given him in not breaking. 

_End_


End file.
